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What humans refer to as the soul, what is sometimes called the spirit or which we refer to as the entity, is not what is Definitely not,” I tell him. When the strike was finally over, the Gracos savings, like the savings of so many others, had dwindled down to nothing. As a result, for the past year his father had been working the extended shift, eagerly taking all the time and a half he could get (while still working seven days a week) in an effort to earn back the money they d lost. His father was only home a few hours a day, and then he was either sleeping, working outside in the garden, mowing the lawn, or taking care of their chickens and other livestock. (Randy Graco played at being a parttime farmer and beekeeper.) As a result, Timmy didn ' t see much of him. His mother, Elizabeth, was usually busy with housework, playing Bridge with her friends, or participating with the Spring Grove Ladies Auxiliary. As a result, he spent more time with his grandfathe r than his parents. Despite Dane Graco' s flagging health and how quickly he grew tired, his grandfather took him fishing along Codorus Creek, for walks in nearby Bowman 's woods, and played Pitfall, Asteroids, and other video games on the Atari video game console. Occasionally, when he was feeling up to it, Dane would drive the two of them into town and treat for two slices of pepperoni pizza at Genova's, where they' d feed quarter after quarter into the Galaga, Paperboy, and Mappy arcade machines until his grandfather ran out of changeusually after ten dollars or so. Once, when his father was in a particularly good mood and had a rare day off, the four of them had driven to Baltimore to watch the Orioles play the Yankees. He and his grandfather had jeered the opposing team until his mother had made them both hush. On the way home, the two of them had fallen asleep in the back of his parent's Aries K car. When Timmy looked back on these moments, he smiled. He hoped that he never forgot them, the way he' d forgotten his grandmother. Forgetfulness seemed to be something that came with adulthood. Sometimes, when Timmy asked his parents about certain things from when they were growing up, they'd say that they couldn 't remember. He'd noticed that other adults did this, tooexcept for his grandfather. Timmy wanted to be just like him, and never forget. Not remembering his grandmother was bad enough. He couldn 't imagine forgetting the times spent with his grandfather, too. Timmy knew how lucky he was. Yes, his father was stressedout over his job, and that made him grumpy. And yes, his mother probably conceded to his father a little too much, especially when it came to decisions that affected Timmy decisions with which she often disagreed. But Timmy knew they loved him, just as his grandfather loved him. Things could be worse. At least his parents were still there, and at least they paid attention to him. His friend Doug Keiser ' s father had run off three years ago, vanishing from the Whistle Stop bar one night with a waitress in tow, as well as the family car and the contents of their checking and savings accounts. Doug 's mother had started drinking after that, and these days, that's all she seemed to do. She didn't work, just collected welfare checksand newspapers. And magazines. Soda cans. Junk mail. Coupons. Empty bottles. Like a pack rat, she stacked them up in ever increasing piles all over the house. The towering, precarious walls of debris formed pathways through the living room, dining room, and hallway. Except for Doug 's bedroom, their entire home smelled like booze and mildew, and she kept the windows and shades closed all day, preferring the darkness. If Doug' s mother still loved her son, she had a funny way of showing it. She barely registered his presence most days, unless it was to holler at him for something. Doug was able to come and go as he pleased, simply because his mother didn 't notice he was missing. Worse, she paid more attention to Timmy and Barrytoo much attention. Sometimes, the way she touched them, or the way she smiled, or the things she said Timmy knew it was wrong. Fingers lingering on their arms just a little too long or licking her lips when she talked to them, arching her back to push her sagging breasts out. It was like the beginning to one of those letters in the Penthouse magazines they sometimes read. Probably their imagination. They knew that. And Doug certainly hadn 't noticed (or if he had, he' d never mentioned it). But still, sometimes it seemed like Carol Keiser was hitting on them. And that was just weird, because Carol Keiser was a grownup. Any time Timmy got mad at his parents, all he had to do to put things in perspective was think of Doug' s mother. That made things better, made him grateful for what he had. And if that didn 't work, there was always Barry's mom and dad to consider. But none of the boys talked about what went on inside Barry' s house. Especially Barry. Timmy and Doug both knew, or could guess. If Timmy thought about it too long, he wanted to cry. But the facts themselves remained unspoken between them, just like Doug 's mom's odd behavior when drunk. I grabbed her wrist when Cunt casually stated, Roll down the window more, Kitten. Youre acting more like a scared child then the experience switch I know you to be. He studied the line of trees. Mais oui,she said, with a little smile, affirming that she meant something like, I am here for you. Mail this Pageto a Friend. ZetaTalk: Family of Man Karens hips bucked beneath him as she felt him explode. Pat s body went limp, sagging against her. Karen lay still, panting. She nuzzled his chest. Pat flipped his sweaty bangs away from his eyes and sighed. The subject matter abruptly changed, from the personal to the apocalyptic. Probably not. Why were you included in that gathering? Down on the sidewalk at the foot of the steps was Orrie Cathers topcoat. From up above that’s just what it was, his topcoat. I went down the seven steps, and then I could see his face. There was nothing much wrong with his face. He had liked his face too much to hold it the way Pierre had held it. Nine days and ten hours had passed, two hundred and twenty-six hours, since I had stood and looked down at what had been Pierre’s face. Doug mouthed the words, silently repeating them to himself. Then he frowned. I dont get it. Whats it mean? I wouldn t want him to speak to me, she thought. I never want to hear his voice. I wouldn t even open my eyes. If only I could just stay here in the bed, stretched out naked and eager, and he would come in with his prick already stiff, and thrust it into me without touching my body, or even wanting me. If we could only have that between us, his fat cock in me, and not a word. And I wouldn' t want to know his name, or where he comes from, or the women he goes to after me. It is no secret that an alien race has desire for the African continent. This is not the only continent in this category..
